The Way They Are
by jenron12
Summary: "So that's it?" he said. "You're honestly willing to stand there and tell me that you're happy with our little arrangement? That you're… satisfied… with leaving things the way they are?" Set post series, this is a one-shot told from Gillian's perspective as she struggles to come to terms with her feelings for Cal.


_**A/N: After five weeks of writer's block and massive stress, I sat down to try and write the final chapter for my "Web of Lies" story and got hit with the inspiration for a little drabble. Which turned into this, lol. It's definitely not little, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. And I'd also like to give a massive thank you to all of you who have sent me comments, messages, and general kind words over the last few weeks. That's done wonders for getting me back on track around here, and to get my creative juices flowing again. I hope you'll enjoy this random story, and I promise that final chapter to my other one is in the works. :)**_

_**Thanks in advance for reading / reviewing! It means more than you know. :)**_

_**Enjoy!**_

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"So that's… _all_ then? Nothing else you wanted to tell me, love?"

The tone of Cal's voice landed right in her gut, and for a moment Gillian was hit with a very real wave of nausea. She wasn't sure why he'd chosen to pick at this particular thread _now_ – when they'd just finished a lovely, relaxing dinner to celebrate the end of their latest case – but there it was. The implication. The one they'd managed to avoid for months. He was just waiting for her to address it.

Hoping to stall him, she sighed and glanced randomly around the parking lot. The practical side of her brain knew it wouldn't work, but that didn't stop her from trying. "No, not that I can think of," she said.

They both knew she was lying.

The dance that had so long ago become second nature wrapped itself around them like silk. One step forward, one step back. Years of practice and they still weren't really going anywhere.

Trouble was, it was getting harder and harder for him not to push the issue.

Gillian knew her options were limited; that she needed to change the subject _right now_, or he'd keep right on pushing until it drove both of them completely mad. And to that end, she wracked her brain trying to think of some reasonable way to steer the conversation in a different direction. She sighed and shifted and fidgeted (_which made it even all the more obvious, because fidgeting was his department, not hers),_ and then when she still came up empty, she let out a single groan of frustration and rolled her eyes at him.

Yes, it was childish. And no, she didn't care.

Perceptive as ever, Cal was on to her game in a matter of seconds. He gestured at her face with a smug little grin, because _of course _there was something else she wanted to tell him. _He_ knew it, and _she_ knew it, and _hell_… everyone that had dined within earshot of their table probably knew it too, thanks to the wine they'd shared. They weren't exactly subtle, after all. Not anymore.

Not since Claire.

Gillian sighed again. Between his accent, his aftershave, and that playful look in his eyes, it was only a matter of seconds until her resolve crumbled entirely. So much for her plan to steer the conversation into safe territory. At this rate, she'd count herself lucky just to make it to the end of the evening fully clothed.

And with that thought, she blushed. Fiercely.

It was the only green light Cal needed.

He'd been careful to keep a respectable distance between them throughout the evening, but the sight of Gillian's flushed cheeks and not-so-innocent half smile tipped the scales in his favor. A beat later, he closed the distance between them and she felt the warm pressure of his hand land against the small of her back. "You and I both know you're lying, Gillian. And trust me on this one: denial is nothing but a temporary fix."

For lack of anything to say, she swallowed nervously and blinked at him – stupidly fixated on the way the word '_denial'_ tripped off his tongue. Something about Cal was definitely… _different_. From the impish smile wore, to the way his hand effortlessly worked its way up and down the length of her spine, to the barely-controlled sound of his reaction at the feel of gooseflesh that surfaced beneath the thin fabric of her dress… _something_ had clearly gotten under his skin and made him even more brazen than usual.

Her only hope was that she'd be able to hang on for the ride.

She took a deep breath to clear her senses, then nudged him with her elbow and tried to keep things playful between them. "Says the master of denial himself," she quipped.

It backfired almost instantly.

Without missing a beat, Cal leaned into her space even further – until they were chest to chest, and close enough that the handful of other people nearby were blatantly staring. His breath was warm against her skin; his eyes alight with mischief.

"I'm a master at many things, yeah? Seems a shame that you've only ever scratched the surface."

_Holy hell_, he was good. The man was brilliant with innuendo, and fully aware of the power of a few well-chosen words. And as the wave of nausea in Gillian's stomach returned full-force – along with a chill that suddenly ran from head to toe as his intentions washed over her– Cal's poker face remained intact. There was no hint of anxiety in his body… just total and complete self-confidence at the prospect of showing her _exactly_ what he meant. _Live, and in living color._

Gillian swallowed. Twice. Then she started to stammer and giggle and blush – all simultaneously, as her hands moved instinctively up his arms, squeezing gently as she went. This was going to be harder than she thought. And out of nowhere, she was hit with the thought that no man with an accent like Cal's should ever smell… _that good_. It was downright criminal.

Just as her fingertips reached his lapels, she closed her eyes. She was stalling… weighing her options. Just trying to buy herself a little bit of time. But that backfired too, because when she finally glanced up at him again he was _right there_. Even closer than he'd been a second earlier. Still confident… still secure… and looking at her in a way that caused the final few ounces of her self-doubt to slip, until they were only hanging on by their fingernails.

On a whim, she spoke the first two words that popped into her head. "Many things?"

Her tone was weak – her voice cracking on the last syllable, giving him even more room to maneuver. And when she felt a fresh wave of heat flood her face, it suddenly hit her that she'd played right into his hand. _Checkmate_.

"Let's try this again, then, shall we?" he breathed, dropping so much thickness into his accent that it simultaneously weakened her resolve even further, and ruffled her feathers. Because she did _not_ want to be baited. She did _not_ want to play this game.

Not because it wasn't fun, in its own twisted, sexually frustrated way… but because the outcome never changed.

She raised one hand to his chest as a warning and stepped backwards out of his reach. Things were getting too dangerous now. Too heated. History told her this was all just going to end up as one big tease – verbal foreplay without any kind of physical payoff – and she needed to stop him before he took it any further. "Listen, Cal…"

He didn't let her finish.

"It's a simple question, and it deserves a simple answer," he said softly. "Was there anything else you wanted to tell me? Anything at all? Because if you can look me in the eye right now and tell me that everything between us is fine – that you're truly, completely _satisfied_ – then I'll walk you to your car and be on my way. Parting hug, kiss on the cheek, see you at the office on Monday. Same as always."

Now _that_ was new. That was _very_ new. And for the umpteenth time that evening, Gillian was left grasping at straws as she tried to find a reply that would fit the situation, let leave them both with an 'out,' just in case things turned to hell. But before she could speak, Cal's hands were on her again – one on each of her arms. He touched her with his fingertips, slowly claiming a path that drifted up past her shoulders and ended with a pass along the slope of her neck. And when he finally heard her breathing hitch in response to his touch – just as they _both_ knew would happen – he rocked back on his heels, satisfied.

"What's wrong, darling? Cat got your tongue?"

She easily caught the challenge in his tone. Felt the undercurrent of emotion that flickered just beneath the surface of his words, practically daring her to name what had been dancing between them for months.

_God_, she wanted to. She wanted to name it, then grab his hand and take off in a mad dash across the parking lot until they were both in the darkened confines of his backseat. Preferably naked.

But she didn't. Trademark Gillian, she backpedalled instead.

As much as it pained her to admit it, she was as stubborn as he was. So she blinked, fumbling for her keys and as she gestured awkwardly toward her car. "It's getting late. Don't you think we'd better call it a night?"

For a few seconds _– _a few very short seconds, as half the tension in her body whooshed away with one deep, shuddering exhale – she could've sworn he would let it slide. That he would let her off the hook and _not_ go all… well, _Lightman_… about the whole thing. That he would _not_ call her on her pitiful deflection or insist that she tell him what was really on her mind.

But this was Cal she was dealing with. And backing down wasn't exactly in his wheelhouse.

Calm as could be, he simply took the key from her hand, tucked it into his own pocket, and dropped her bag onto the pavement. It landed at her heels with an audible thud, drawing a grin to his face and a grimace to hers. It was an odd scene, indeed. The sexual tension between them was being played to the hilt, but it was tempered with just the slightest bit of irritation to keep things interesting.

"Bet you'd really like me to let that one go, yeah?" Cal quipped, smoothly rocking forward until he bumped into her shoulder with his own. He was re-charged and looking to make his point, whether she wanted him to make it or not. "Bet you'd really appreciate it if I just ignored that bright pink elephant of a deflection you just gave me, wouldn't you?"

She chortled, her stubborn streak as strong as ever as she rolled her eyes at him. "Pink elephant? Really?"

"It's there, darling. Like a neon sign. And I'm bloody sick of it hanging over our heads."

Much as she wanted to argue with his logic, she couldn't. And as he peered even deeper into her eyes, she fought the urge to look away.

"I know you see it, too," he said softly.

She heard no malice in his tone; saw nothing but genuine affection on his face. And she knew that _this_ time, he wasn't trying to bait her. He just wanted a truthful answer.

Trouble was, he wanted a truthful answer to the one question they'd both been avoiding for years.

"What is _with you_ tonight, anyway?" she asked, her body drifting closer to his automatically. "This feels like some kind of strange, one-sided version of twenty questions, except you keep asking the same damn one. I swear, Cal – sometimes you're like a dog with a bone."

"Fair enough," he shrugged. "But you can't fault a guy for trying. Can't expect me to read your mind, now can you?"

Without missing a beat, she groaned in frustration and advanced on him again, just another half step. Mere inches, but still… the movement was enough to bring his smug grin back in full force. And once she saw it, the words flew out of her mouth before her better judgment could stop them.

"You can read everything else, can't you?" she said bitterly. "The real question is this: are you ever planning _to do_ anything about what you see?"

A thick, heavy silence hung between them, and for a split second, Gillian wasn't sure what had caused it. But then – in a delayed reaction that would've been downright comical under any other circumstance – her jaw dropped open at the realization of what she'd just said. What she'd just _admitted_.

She felt a fresh flash of embarrassment as the reaction to her comment washed over Cal in an instant.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. _

He was going to have a field day with her now.

She expected him to pounce; to pull her against his body, twine his hands in her hair… anything sexual. And she wouldn't have blamed him at all, because what she'd all but given him a free pass. Hell, she'd practically dared him to take her, right then and there.

But he didn't.

He moved slowly instead, using deliberate patience that somehow excited her even further. In their little game of cat and mouse, he was clearly in the lead.

"So that's the heart of it, then," he said. It was an observation rather than a question, and she fought the urge to nod along with him in agreement. "You're waiting for me _to do_ something. To make the first move."

_Panic_. _Sheer and utter panic_ was the only way to describe the flood of emotion that ran through her system at that exact moment. Because they both knew he hit the nail right on the head. She _was_ waiting for him to make the first move. She'd been waiting for a very long time. And now that the ball was finally in play, she had no idea what came next. Cal Lightman and Gillian Foster did _not_ do this. They did _not_ act on their feelings. They flirted. They insinuated. But at the end of the day, they always retreated to separate corners as friends, never lovers.

Cal let out one deep, shaky breath and continued inching toward her until he was close enough to brush his knuckles along the length of her jaw. "It's a blessing and a curse, you know," he mused. "I can see the truth, Gillian. But I can also see the fear, and it's written all over your face. That's '_Fight or Flight_,' that is."

There was no malice in his tone – just the sound of sheer surprise that neither one of them had tucked tail and turned away yet. And although Gillian knew full well that she'd just been given the Cal Lightman version of a '_First Step_,' she panicked again. All the fear and doubt and hesitation that had festered between them for the past nine years suddenly balled up in her stomach, making her nauseous and lightheaded all at the same time. Fainting was a definite possibility, and the fact that Cal couldn't seem to stop touch her was only making it worse. He stroked her hair… her shoulders… her face. She was unnerved _and_ aroused.

But in the end, the reality of their situation hit Gillian like a bucket of ice water. The fact that they were standing less than twenty feet away from a very public restaurant lobby and getting the evil eye from at least a dozen random strangers swayed her headlong into "flight" territory.

She felt like a hypocrite _and_ a coward.

"Fight or flight, huh?" she repeated, her voice breaking as she struggled with the words. "Yeah, well… God knows you're familiar with that."

And there it was. She'd moved them back to square one in a single sentence, becauseeven though she hadn't _really_ said anything – even though she hadn't really _accused_ him of anything – neither of them had any trouble reading between the lines she'd drawn.

A quick flex of his fingers drew her eyes downward, and she watched as he shoved both hands into his pockets. "Says the woman who just made a pretty obvious choice between the two. Flight it is then, yeah?"

The disappointment in his voice made her feel about two inches tall. "Cal…"

His name was both a warning and a plea, and she couldn't decide if she wanted him to come closer – to wrap his arms around her and refuse to let her push him away – or if it would just be easier on both of them if he kept his distance. Emotionally _and_ physically.

He shook his head and raised one hand between them, not giving her the chance to finish. "So that's it?" he said. "You're honestly willing to stand there and tell me that you're happy with our little arrangement? That you're… _satisfied_… with leaving things the way they are?"

Gillian could hear her heart beating in her ears… could feel her hands start to tremble and she fought to keep her body still. This would all be so much easier if he wasn't looking at her like _that_. Like he could see right through her, all the way into her heart.

It would all be so much easier if she hadn't fallen in love with him.

"Things work just fine the way they are, Cal. And they've been working just fine for as long as I've known you."

_Lie, lie, lie. _She'd barely gotten through that last sentence with a straight face, and she knew there was no chance in hell Cal would believe a single word of it.

She was right.

And that not-so white lie she'd just told? It took less than ten seconds for him to call her on it.

"Looks like the beautiful Doctor Foster has spent a little time moonlighting as a bullshit artist, yeah?" he said.

A snorted laugh escaped around the edges of Cal's fingers and Gillian blushed anew. Still, she was too stubborn to back down. _"_You think this is… _funny_?" she accused. "I'm standing here trying to have a serious conversation with you, and you're… _laughing_ at me?"

He snorted again. "No you're not."

Gillian's mouth dropped open in surprise, even as pure instinct propelled her to move closer. "_Excuse me_?" she said.

Cal copied her movements, taking a half-step towards her and fully enjoying the irritated expression that flashed across her face when he did. "You're not trying to have a conversation at all, Gill. Not at all. You're trying to lie to me, and with all due respect, love? Everything that's come out of your mouth in the last few minutes has been total bullshit, and we both know it."

"Total bullshit?" she repeated. "That's a bit harsh, don't you think?"

The grin hit his lips before her final word hit the air. "Nah," he said, shuffling towards her as he spoke. "I'd say it's pretty bloody accurate, actually. Because things between us are not 'fine.' They're messy and complicated and sexy as hell, yeah? They're tense and exhilarating and more than a little bit confusing, and _that's_ how they've been for as long as we've known each other."

"Listen Cal, I…"

Three short words. That was as far as she got before reality kicked in and Gillian discovered she had no idea what she should say next. "_Should_" being the key word, because what she "_should_" say, and what she "_wanted_" to say were two very, very different things.

She _should_ be responsible and rational… she _should_ think with her brain, and not her body. She _should_ remember that the incorrigibly charming man standing in front of her (with the irresistible accent and disarming smile) was also her best friend and her business partner.

But what she _wanted_ to do was very simple.

She _wanted_ to tell him that he was right. That it was complete bullshit for her to pretend that things between them were still 'just fine.' She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to will away the swarm of butterflies in her stomach and when she finally looked up at him again, the look on Cal's face stole her breath. He was totally relaxed.

"I can see what you're thinking, love, but it would make this a whole lot easier on both of us if you'd use your words instead."

She smiled – remembering all too well how many times she'd given him the same advice – and cupped his cheek in her palm. "We've come full circle, I see," she said softly.

History told her that this was the point at which they always stopped. Jokes were cracked, eyes were rolled, and each of them went their separate ways. But not this time. Pure determination shone from Cal's eyes in response to her words, and he gently lifted her hand to his chest and placed it over his heart.

When he spoke again, she shivered.

"It doesn't have to be this way, you know. Things don't have to be… complicated."

Her eyes closed automatically at the feel of his pulse beneath her fingertips. Constant. Solid. Reassuring. And even though she couldn't pinpoint a single, solitary thing that made all the pieces click together, they did.

They fit.

Gillian blinked up at him from beneath her lashes and took a final deep breath. "Cal, I…"

There was so much more she wanted to say. So much more that she was ready to say. But all of it – all of it – was lost as soon as she felt his hand return to its earlier position at the small of her back, claiming the spot that they both knew had always belonged to him.

"I'm right here, Gillian," he breathed. "That first move you wanted? This is it."

He moved so quickly and so confidently that her brain barely had time to process anything before she'd been pulled even further into his arms. The look in his eyes was… overwhelming. As if speaking those few short words had lifted a thousand pound weight from his chest, and he could finally – _finally_ – breathe. He could finally _move_. And suddenly Gillian did not care if anyone was watching them. She didn't care if _everyone_ was watching them. All she saw, all she knew, was him.

In the next breath, his mouth was on hers. Claiming... possessing. Sharing all the feelings that gone unspoken for so very long, and making promises of memories yet to come. He walked the delicate line between passion and patience in the form of slow, sultry kisses that spoke of their future together. She reveled in the tender touch of his fingertips as they stroked against the column of her throat… lost herself in the feel of his body, strong and solid as it instinctively aligned with hers.

All of it… _all of it_… was liberating.

Still wrapped in the warmth of his embrace, Gillian felt the cadence of Cal's heartbeat slow as he reluctantly pulled back, just far enough to look into her eyes. She felt his breathing grow shallow as he waited for her to speak, and she saw the tiny, pinpricks of fear that automatically settled around the edges of his guarded expression.

He'd made the first move. She knew it was up to her to make the second.

Deciding it was now or never, and that he'd been right all along – that things between them really didn't need to be complicated – Gillian reached up and cupped his face in her hands.

"That comment you made? About being a… 'master at many things?'" she began. "That it was a shame I'd only scratched the surface?"

Her voice was a bit shakier than she would've liked, but they both knew it wasn't caused by fear. And it definitely wasn't caused by doubt. This time, the blame rested fully and completely on her hormones.

Cal let out a low growl, instantly catching onto her game. "Is this your not-so subtle way of telling me you'd be up for a little research project, then? Just to see if I can put my money where my mouth is?"

An hour earlier, if someone had told Gillian what she was _actually_ about to say, she would never have believed it. Because history would've told her that Gillian Foster and Cal Lightman did _not_ do… _this_. They did not flirt, and they did not kiss. They did not admit their true feelings, and they most certainly did not dial the sexual innuendo up to the highest possible notch. Not at all.

But as she stood there, with the words poised on the tip of her tongue and her heart placed firmly in his hand, Gillian decided that history didn't matter anymore. Not at all. The only thing that mattered was their future. Together. And so she let out a deep, satisfied sigh, looked him slowly up and down, and spoke the words she knew would hit him right in the groin.

"I have about a dozen different suggestions as to where you can put your mouth, Cal," she quipped. "And trust me: I'll have no trouble at all using my words to describe each and every one of them."

_Checkmate_.

Things between them might have been messy, but they were definitely… _definitely_… a whole lot of fun.

And that was exactly the way she intended to keep them.


End file.
